


For All Time

by IdleLeaves



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/F, Ficlet Collection, Flash Fic, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2018-10-12 20:13:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10498635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IdleLeaves/pseuds/IdleLeaves
Summary: A collection of flashfic, drabbles, & snippets.Chapter 1:Finrod & Fingon, on the Grinding Ice.Chapter 2:In an instant, the ice gives way beneath their feet. (Aredhel/Elenwë)Chapter 3:Fingon and Ereinion, after the fall of Fingolfin.





	1. Ever Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finrod & Fingon, on the Grinding Ice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [amyfortuna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna).

The wind does not cease. Even the ice stills, at times, and once in a great while the dark clouds will thin just enough for the stars to shine dimly through, but the cold wind from the north is ever-present.

Finrod and Fingon walk side by side, heads bowed, cloaks wrapped around them as securely as can be. The Ice had not brought them together, but it has cemented the bond, keeps them close when drifting from each other's sight could mean being claimed by the frigid sea without a chance for rescue.

Neither speaks. In the beginning, those first days on the Ice, words had been near-constant. Fingolfin and his sons and daughter – and Finarfin's children, too – had moved amongst their people speaking of courage, determination, and what awaits them after this crossing, but as time passed the words froze in their mouths. Now, their silent strength stands in place of speech, and helps the host carry itself forward despite the hardship, despite the loss.

It's past time to rest. Fingon leads Finrod to shelter, of a sort, in the shadow of a wide shard of ice extending up from the uneven ground, and unties the blankets he carries rolled under his pack. Blankets wrapped around them, they huddle together, sharing the last portion of dried fruit carried from home. After this, it is only waybread, and the fish they catch, on occasion, through cracks in the ice.

Finrod's head rests on Fingon's shoulder; Fingon's hand is as cold as his own when he clasps and holds it under their cloaks. The Ice groans alarmingly some distance away, but does not shudder beneath them. After a long moment, and with the hesitation of one who has been quiet too long, Fingon begins, softly, to sing. A song of the stars – the same ones kept from them, this night and so many others, by mists and cloud above.

He raises his voice to be heard above the wind, and another singer joins him. Then, another, and another yet. The song travels through the host, carried on a few strong voices; not many, but enough. It's a reminder, in a dark time, that hope is not lost – and neither are they.

Finrod does not sing, but he listens, holding Fingon's hand tightly in both of his own.


	2. Fracture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In an instant, the ice gives way beneath their feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagine this as taking place in an AU where Turgon has been on the ice and Aredhel & Elenwë found Gondolin together instead.

In an instant, the ice gives way beneath their feet. There's no warning, no deep splintering groan that often comes before the fractures; it simply cracks like a tree split by an axe, exposing the frigid water below.

Elenwë falls.

Aredhel lunges for her, very nearly sending herself straight into the sea, as well. Behind her, fellow travellers have come to her aid, holding her tight around the legs so she can stretch closer to the edge, reaching down to where Elenwë desperately treads water just out of reach. Aredhel extends her arm as far as she can; it's not enough. Elenwë's fingers touch hers then slip free.

 _Elenwë!_ Aredhel shouts, out of frustration, out of fear. She's already lost a brother to this death-ice; she cannot, will not--

Elenwë grasps her hand, and this time holds on. Aredhel pulls with all the strength she can muster, and those behind her do the same, dragging her back from the edge; then, Elenwë lies gasping on the ice, trailing water and shivering so hard her teeth chatter.

There are dry clothes for her, from Aredhel's pack, but they both know this will not be enough - Elenwë's hair is soaked through, dripping around her face and starting to freeze. There's precious little wood remaining to them and a fire is ill-advised on unstable ice, but without the warmth she will not survive. They've lost so many to the cold, already, though not as many as have been carried off by the sea or caught under the ice when it breaks and heaves.

The air is damp with heavy mist; the fire will not light. Aredhel takes the tinder-box herself and tries, over and over, until the smallest curls of flame start to sputter and smoke. Fingon brings them a heavy cloak - his own - and they huddle beneath it, grateful that the wind has quieted for a time. Aredhel presses a kiss to Elenwë's cold lips, and does not protest when Elenwë's head falls onto her shoulder and stays there for a long while as the fire grows and warms. Fingon sits across from them, wordless, adding wood to the fire as needed and keeping a close watch on the ice beneath them.

Aredhel reaches out, after a time, and takes Elenwë's hands, holding them tight in her own. They are chilled, still, but no longer frozen; white, still, but no longer ice-blue. _I'll be all right, love,_ Elenwë says, and Aredhel believes her.


	3. 'Til Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingon and Ereinion, after the fall of Fingolfin.

Fingon wakes to near-darkness. At first he's not sure that he's even slept, but the moon has, indeed, travelled some distance across the sky. Míreth has moved, as well, closing what space there had been between them and curling against his side with her hand on his chest. Fingon places his hand over hers and lies still, but restlessness gets the better of him and he slips out of bed to stand at the window.

There is little more light outside than in, with the moon a thin, cold crescent and the stars dulled by drifting cloud. The courtyard fires have been extinguished, yet the wind still carries a song: a lament for a fallen king. Though the singers' voices are unfamiliar, their grief is not. Fingon rubs a hand across his eyes.

Fingon turns on his heel, and passes through the halls to the door of his young son's bedchamber. He pushes the door open, silently, and leans against the frame. Ereinion is sprawled in sleep, as always, one hand flung above his head and the other clutching the blankets. Fingon bows his head, for a moment, and when he raises it Ereinion's eyes are open.

"Go back to sleep," Fingon says, gently.

Ereinion neither protests nor obeys; instead, he holds out his arms. Fingon sighs, and the bed creaks as he sits beside his son and gathers him into his arms. "Too tight," comes Ereinion's muffled complaint. Fingon loosens his grip.

"Why are they still singing?" Ereinion asks, his voice soft and sleep-slurred.

"Hush," says Fingon. It's a question for morning, not moonlight.

Ereinion moves to lie down again, but holds Fingon's hand in his own and refuses to let go; he slides over as much as his bed will allow, making space. Fingon slips under the blankets and curls around his son, and it takes only minutes before Ereinion's breathing becomes soft and shallow as he falls back to sleep. Fingon lies beside him with his eyes open to wait for dawn.


End file.
